Sweet Revenge (Full-length romantic suspense novel, New Orleans Trilogy book 2) Page 11

  He frowned, torn between ecstasy and alarm. "What?"

  "It's all right," she leaned up and whispered in his ear, "Tonight I'm being Muse for you."

  She touched him and his head spun like a cross-eyed whirlpool. "Non, chère. I've got exactly the woman I want, right under me. You, Grace." He grabbed her wrist, readying the cuffs.

  Her head wagged from side to side. "Muse."

  "Non. I don' want Muse," he insisted. "It's Grace I want to make love to."

  "Impossible," she whispered, and giggled softly. "Grace would never let a man like you make love to her."

  So she kept saying.

  Yet here she was in bed, naked, panting for him.

  He tried to wrap his brain around that paradox, but all those daiquiris and the three shooters he'd drunk earlier didn't make the job easy.

  It's just sex.

  He glanced down at her bare breasts, plump and exquisite. He wanted to ravish her until they were both a heap of trembling, sated flesh, unable to distinguish where she ended and he began.

  Just sex.

  But dammit, he wanted Grace beneath him, not Muse.

  Suddenly his mind did a screeching U-turn and came to a crashing halt. Back at all those daiquiris and shooters.

  Ah, hell.

  With a blinding clarity he finally understood.

  She was right. Sober, Grace would never allow herself to be in this position.

  And to his everlasting dismay, something else hit him with equal clarity.

  It wasn't just sex. Not by a long shot.

  Chapter 9

  "Baby, what's wrong? Creole?"

  Grace looked up at him, her eyes heavy with the heat of desire, and, he knew now, one too many daiquiris.

  Creole sank his face into the pillow next to her, tossed the handcuffs aside, and groaned in sublime frustration. Damn, damn, damn.

  He might be a bit far gone himself, but not that far gone. The colorful Mardi Gras masks on the wall above the bed seemed to laugh mockingly at him.

  He had to be crazy. Completely nuts. Out of his pathetically misled skull.

  But there it was. Staring him in the face. When he made love, he wanted it to be with Grace—100 percent Grace. No hesitations, no pretenses, no masks, no false courage. No daiquiris. And no Muse.

  He couldn't go through with it tonight.

  Not like this.

  So he blurted out the only reasonable justification he could think of that would not land him in a heap of immediate grief. "Sorry, honey, but I just realized … I didn' bring along any protection."

  Grace nuzzled his neck, pulling him back down when he would have risen. "Don't worry, sugar. Muse is nothing if not prepared." She opened the top drawer of the nightstand. It was filled to overflowing with small, square packets.

  He stared at the drawer, his shaky excuse self-destructing before his eyes. His gut twisted. There was no other way out of this. He'd have to tell her the truth.

  When he still didn't say anything, she looked up at him worriedly. "Did I do something? Accidentally touch you, or—"

  "Non, chérie. Nothing like that." He ground out a curse. "I'm sorry. I just … can't."

  "Oh." Her eyes didn't meet his, and her voice held the slightest quaver when she said, "Can't, or won't?"

  "Won't," he said resignedly, already bitterly regretting his decision. Dieu, this was the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life, bar none.

  He wanted her. But he wanted her.

  "What made you change your mind?" The words were nonchalant, but she still wouldn't look at him, and now he could see a sheen of tears in her eyes.

  "Oh, darlin'," he said, and pulled her unyielding body close. She didn't move a muscle. "I haven' changed my mind. Can't you feel how much I want you? How incredibly much I still want you?"

  She swallowed when he lowered his body completely onto her, fitting perfectly into her pliant curves. She couldn't possibly miss how aroused he continued to be, even as he declined to fulfill that desire.

  "Then why?"

  He took a deep breath and tried to put it tactfully. "You said it yourself just now. If you were sober, you'd never be in this bed with me. I guess I'd be a total jerk if I ignored that kind of statement, no matter how much I'd like to pretend I hadn't heard it. But you're right, chère. We've both had a lot to drink tonight. Too much to make this kind of decision."

  She was silent for a moment, then said, "Oh," again. Slowly her eyes filled with something else… Oh, no. It was embarrassment.

  She gave an uneven laugh and covered her face with her hands. "I should have known I'd blow it," she whispered. "I've never been any good at this seduction stuff."

  He bent to kiss her fingers, one by one. "Darlin', if you were any better at it, you'd be dangerous."

  "Sure." Her laugh turned into a self-deprecating groan. "Oh, why me? This kind of thing would never happen to Muse."

  Easing her hands away from her face, he laced his fingers with hers on the pillow. "You're right, it'd never happen to Muse. Because a night like this would mean little to her, and any man would know that. But with you, it's different. Darlin', I'd give anything to be able to go through with what we started. But I know good an' well that eventually you'll wake up sober, an'—"

  "And you're afraid I'll hate myself in the morning," she completed.

  He gave her a lopsided smile, knowing she'd already forgiven him. His heart eased in profound relief. "Naw, I could live with that."

  She choked out a surprised chuckle. "What, then?"

  He brushed his lips over her cheek, savoring the closeness, the nearness, the completeness he felt, cradled in her body's embrace. "What I'm so afraid of is that you'll wake up and hate me in the morning. I couldn't stand that."

  He held his breath as she looked up at him, lips trembling, eyes pooling with liquid. "Oh, Auri," she whispered, surprising him again by using his real name. "I could never hate you."

  He laid his cheek on hers, praying it was true. But it was early days yet. He sighed. "Nobody's called me Auri in a long, long time."

  Not since Luke. His foster brother had always called him by his real name, ignoring his youthful macho defiance when he'd started answering solely to the insult the others called him by.

  "Do you mind?"

  "No." And strangely, he didn't. No one else had been permitted to breach that particular protective wall, ever. But with Grace, it somehow felt … safe. "No, I don' mind."

  He sought her lips and gently plied them with his. It was a kiss of understanding, of accord, of promise.

  And of contained heat and need.

  She made a little noise, and he deepened the kiss. Just a bit more. He could stop. He could. He would. But right now he needed to feel her, taste her, enjoy her bare body beneath him, because this might well be the last time he'd ever get the chance.

  "I do love how you taste," he murmured, and delved deeper still.

  "And I love how you kiss," she said on a sigh when he let her up for air.

  What man could resist an invitation like that? He kissed her long and wet and unhurried, until his mind numbed and his body burned for release.

  Her hips did a slow undulation against him, and her foot scraped up his jeans, looped over his leg and rubbed the back of his knee.

  He groaned, tore his lips from hers, and rolled off her in a single motion. Definitely time to stop.

  "Ah, chère, you aren't goin' to make it easy on me, are you?" He laughed, because if he didn't, he'd fling himself back on top of her and make love to her until dawn—sometime next week.

  She canted onto her side, leaning on her elbow to peer down at him, and smiled. A very feminine, tantalizing smile. "Revenge is so sweet."

  He groaned again. "Donc, pitié! Have pity, jolie, on a man in pain."

  She leaned forward and kissed his jaw. When she lifted, the vixen was gone. In her place was a guileless little girl. "I guess you were telling the truth about wanting me." Her mouth curved up, and he thanked G
od he'd passed her test, whatever it was.

  "I should go," he said, loathing the thought more than he could ever have imagined.

  "No, wait!" In a flash she was on top of him, her hands grasping the pillow on either side of his head to prevent his escape. "Please don't go," she said anxiously. "We don't have to—" her head tick-tocked back and forth "—you know. We can just hold each other. That is—you could hold me … or not, if you don't want to. Just … don't go."

  "Darlin'—"

  "Please? Didn't those men say I might be in danger?"

  She had a point. In his greed for her, he'd almost forgotten their warning. Lord, he had no choice. It was his job to protect her.

  Besides, he wouldn't be getting any sleep, anyway—regardless of where he made his bed. That was a damned certainty. So why not pass the night with his arms wrapped around her warm body? If his hands strayed a bit in the darkness, well, what harm would it do at this point? As long as he didn't take advantage of her, tomorrow morning he'd be able to look himself in the mirror with his self-respect intact. More or less.

  And he'd know she was safe.

  On the other hand, who would protect her from him?

  "Honey, the way I'm wantin' you, that probably wouldn' be the best idea."

  He could watch her from the balcony. That would work.

  Her eyes beseeched. "Please? I don't want to be alone."

  Aw, hell. She looked so desperately vulnerable at that moment, he couldn't have made himself leave if Luke's killer was waiting for him right outside the door.

  Sometimes doing the right thing was hell. But he'd long since found he couldn't live with the alternative. This was one of those times. As amazing as it seemed, this strong, compassionate woman needed his strength and compassion right now, and whatever the cost, he'd be damned if he'd let her down.

  "All right, chère. I'll stay. But only if you'll let me keep my promise."

  Even in the moonlit bedroom, her smile was blinding. "Thank you."

  She melted over him like French vanilla icing on spice cake, filling every nook and cranny of his anatomy with her luscious sweetness, draping over his chest, adding light and a piquant normalcy to the dark, seasoned, sharpness of his existence.

  She kissed him once, then settled against his side, one hand tucked under the pillow at his shoulder, her other grasping the corner of the pillowcase on the other side. His heart was touched more than he could say by her instinctive protectiveness toward him, her unconscious awareness of his difficulty with hands on him.

  "I've got a wicked crush on you, you know," she murmured, nibbling suggestively down his throat.

  There was a definite impish note in her voice.

  He pursed his lips against a grin and said, "Flattery will get you nowhere, chère. I'm not makin' love to you tonight, no matter how much you beg."

  Although the idea did have an incredible appeal.

  Especially when she moved like she was doing, rubbing the entire length of her hot, silky body against his. He caught himself purring. Actually purring.

  "Non. This isn't working." He tried to dump her off, but she ignored his efforts.

  "I thought it was working pretty well, myself." She batted her eyelashes.

  "You are a very naughty girl, Grace Summerville," he admonished sternly, fighting the amusement bubbling up in him from under his flagrantly painful arousal. "You promised."

  She grinned up at him and he lost the battle. He let out a belly laugh and she joined in, and they laughed together until tears ran down her face and his sides ached nearly as much as his—

  Dieu, he couldn't believe he was laughing in bed. And with a woman, no less.

  He couldn't remember that happening since … since he didn't know when. Hell, since forever. The only time he could ever remember laughing in bed was on the rare occasion when Luke had told some raunchy joke he'd overheard somewhere. As kids they'd always shared a bed, even when it wasn't necessitated by the cramped, dirty conditions of the various foster homes they were shuffled between. It had been safer that way, sleeping spine to spine, each guarding the other's backside, sharing what little warmth there was to be found between their tough, skinny bodies. Soaking up the few, precious hours of gentle human contact.

  He hugged Grace tight, wiped the mirthful tears from her cheeks and thought he'd never been so happy with another human being in his whole life. She was everything he'd ever fantasized in a real family—loving, affectionate, gentle, intelligent, loyal. And she made him laugh. He could get used to that—spending a whole lifetime with a loopy grin stuck permanently on his face, just watching her make him laugh.

  It was a damn, crying shame it was all just a fantasy.

  Tomorrow morning she'd wake up and remember she didn't like men like him, and then she'd be gone. Back to Carolina.

  They settled down to sleep, him clinging to her, she nestled into him, her head tucked into the crook of his neck.

  After a moment she asked in an overly innocent voice, "Wouldn't you be more comfortable if you took off your shirt?"

  He had to give her credit for persistence. He couldn't keep that loopy grin from breaking out. "Not a chance," he assured her.

  "Spoilsport." He could feel her pout even through the fabric of the offending garment. But it was followed by an unmistakable smile.

  "Nice try though."

  "Harrumph."

  They lay together in companionable silence waiting for sleep to come. The big old paddle fan above them whirred softly, and the sounds of the city filtered faintly through the French doors. Out the windows Creole could see a sliver of moon gleaming over the roof of his own apartment. The smells of the Quarter clung to his clothes, and the seductive fragrance of Grace's jessamine perfume wafted from her hair. He stroked the soft skin of her back, slowly caressing her sensual curves, running his fingers through the long, silky tresses draped over his chest and shoulder. Every so often she'd touch her lips to his throat, giving him a tiny butterfly kiss.

  "Chère?"

  "Mmm-hmm?" she answered drowsily.

  "If you still want me tomorrow mornin', just say the word. I'll be happy to oblige."

  A sleepy chuckle vibrated against his chest. "I'll bet you would."

  "Just wanted you to know that."

  Her cheek rubbed against him and he lifted his chin so she could caress his whole throat with her satin skin. He gave a sigh of pleasure when she licked at his rough beard.

  "You're goin' to kill me if you don' stop, honey," he reluctantly said. He'd be hard till Christmas as it was.

  "Serve you right," she mumbled, and yawned. In a voice barely awake, she added, "Think I changed my mind."

  His heart sank, but hadn't he known all along she would? "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. I think you do like being touched, after all."

  It took a second for the change of topic to sink in and register. By the time he'd thought about it enough to respond, she'd fallen asleep in his arms. Her breath came deep and regular, and she unconsciously cuddled closer, sliding her leg between his thighs when she couldn't get close enough.

  He smiled, not caring about the frustration that still pulsed through his veins. He'd trade a hundred, a thousand, nights of meaningless sex for this one night holding Grace. He loved the taste of her lips on his tongue, the sound of her laughter in his ears, the scent of her desire in every pore. And yes, the feel of her body's touch on his.

  "C'est vrai, mon coeur. I guess I do, my love. I guess I do, at that."

  * * *

  Grace awoke gradually, one body part at a time, to the sensation of a warm, muzzy cocoon enveloping her. Her lips woke first, curving up in instinctive pleasure. But no, she must still be asleep, for in her dream she was surrounded by the scent of him. Creole. Detective Levalois. Auri.

  She hummed a note of drowsy contentment. In her dream she could also feel his hard, muscular body at her back, molded to her like a custom-made glove. One powerful masculine arm was banded across her chest, his hand
fastened on her breast; the other was belted over her hip, cupping her intimately. A spurt of dizzy excitement shot through her at the possessiveness of the gesture. Especially when she realized she was naked.

  Mercy. Her dreams just kept getting better and better.

  Now if she could just get him naked, she'd never want to wake up.

  Unfortunately, her past experiences didn't run to being able to fill in the necessary details on a body like Creole's, even in her dreams. The few men she'd seen naked hadn't come close. Not even the star of her first love affair, Luther Giancanno and his varsity jacket, was in the same league. When it had come right down to it, Luther's physique had turned out to be more padding than reality. Just like his love.

  Of course, she had seen that Mickey Rourke movie where there was a brief scene with him naked—

  Suddenly she was startled by a noise behind her. Something that sounded remarkably like a soft snore.

  Her eyes popped wide open and a quick glance downward confirmed the naked truth—she really was in bed with Creole Levalois, and it wasn't a dream, either. She jerked her eyes up to scan the nightstand for further evidence. The abrupt movement sent a thunderbolt of agony shooting through her head. At the sight of his belongings scattered there above the open nightstand drawer, appalling memories of last night's behavior exploded through her mind in Technicolor detail.

  Every single, solitary, humiliating one.

  OhGodohGodohGod. That couldn't have been her. She simply could not have done all those embarrassing things.

  Mortified to the core, Grace tried to ease herself from Creole's grip. But instead of letting her go, his arms increased their hold on her.

  She swallowed heavily, wincing at the headache that began to pound like a kettledrum in her head. Under other circumstances, she might have taken a minute to explore the feeling of his hands on her body. It was something she'd wondered about, fantasized over, but had known would never actually happen. Yet here she was, in exactly the position she'd been dreaming of for days. She should enjoy the moment—briefly—before he woke and she'd have to scramble away lest he think she really wanted to be there.